


The Five Languages

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Five [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bond films, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Movie Night, Multi, Past Hurts, Polyamorous relationship, Sharing A Home, baths, did I mention it was polyamorous?, domestic life, happy trio, love and comfort, seriously if that isn't your thing you should nope out right now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21683089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: Good things come in threes, and that's definitely true of this relationship. Together, Alia, Mycroft and Greg can face anything. They are all the stronger for their relationship. Although they all tend to express their love and care differently, one thing they have in common is the depth and constancy of their love for one another.
Relationships: Greg/Alia, Mycroft/Alia, Mycroft/Greg, Mycroft/Greg/Alia, Mycroft/Greg/OFC
Series: Five [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1563082
Kudos: 25
Collections: Geometry





	The Five Languages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Phoenixrising2014](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixrising2014/gifts).



> A HUGE THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO BETA READ ON THIS. Your feedback was invaluable and much appreciated. ALL MISTAKES ARE MY OWN.  
> Thank you a thousand times to cumber, who bid on this fic in the first place, and who has become a friend, co-conspirator, and co-author. We're plotting lots of fun things for these three and we hope you'll join us for more!

  1. _Words of affirmation – using words to build up the other person._
  2. _Gifts – a gift says, “He was thinking about me. Look what he got for me.”_
  3. _Acts of Service – Doing something for your spouse that you know they would like. {Cooking a meal, washing dishes, vacuuming floors.}_
  4. _Quality time – Undivided attention. {Taking a walk together or sitting on the couch with the TV off – talking and listening.}_
  5. _Physical touch – holding hands, hugging, kissing, sexual intercourse._



  
  
  


Approaching home, Alia loosed a soft, subconsciously grateful sigh. As it was the world over, coming home to shut out the world after a difficult day was a tremendous relief; in the last few years, for her, home had become a true refuge and a place of love.

The early July sun poured buttery warmth across the tops of the buildings, gilding the leaves of the trees which shaded the spacious-and-private-for-London garden. The song of cicadas rose with a blood-deep thrum, small gnats fluttering away from her steps as she crossed the long meadow grasses, Roman chamomile, and valerian. Mycroft’s sensibilities tended more towards manicured grass and neat knotwork hedges, with some ornamental trees to provide shade, but she and Greg had  _ such _ fun planning the garden that Mycroft had given them  _ carte blanche. _

Mycroft had watched with fondness and indulgent amusement as they went a bit wild. Despite the civilised traffic along the road, and the nearness of the throbbing city, it was an oasis of calm. A tall brick and iron-work fence separated them from the rest of the world, enclosing the property in peace and privacy. A reflection of their life: outwardly prim, ‘normal’ and unremarkable; inwardly warm, vibrant and a bastion of security.

Mycroft had long owned the estate in Mayfair, having inherited it from his Uncle Rudy, and thus was used to having a property to care for and change as he chose. But for Alia and Greg, both of whom had lived in flatshares for most of their adult lives, it was a heady sort of freedom. Normally people who rented the top floor of a large home wouldn’t expect to be given such leeway, but then, their arrangement was rather unorthodox in some respects. Officially, Alia rented the top floor of the gracious house from Mycroft, and her boyfriend Greg lived with her. 

_ Unofficially _ (for such was the reality of life with a “minor” government official of Mycroft’s importance) the three had been involved in a union for nearly three years now. 

Sometimes, Alia reflected, unlocking the private entrance of the stairwell which ascended to the top storey, it felt like an elaborate, wonderful, impossible daydream. The heavy steel door closed silently on ball-bearing fittings behind her, locking automatically, and she shifted her messenger bag to her other shoulder and began the climb. She couldn’t wait to take a cool shower, slip into something more suited to relaxation, pour a glass from the bottle of wine she’d opened the night before, and start her weekend. 

Although the past two weeks hadn’t been the worst of her life, they had been barren and lonely, an aching counterpoint to the usual vibrancy of her home life. While not  _ physically _ weary, Alia  _ was _ emotionally exhausted. For a dispiriting number of years, her life had been like this staircase. Not terribly onerous, but something of a duty, a struggle, to reach happiness. An early boyfriend had turned into a youthful marriage which lasted for years; somehow she’d assumed they would raise a family together and grow old together, just as her parents and grandparents had. 

Only... a health scare in her mid-thirties had given her pause. Spending hours online in forums dedicated to others going through the same thing had brought her comfort and community. But the long talks she tried to involve her husband in revealed a yawning divide she’d been unaware had grown between them. Talking didn’t get them anywhere, requests to visit a therapist, to take some proactive measures to save their faltering marriage had ended in cold silences or brief, bitter disagreements. Alia would almost have welcomed shouting matches; anything to show there was still passion between them, that deeper feeling that had once burned bright.

For almost a year their marriage had limped along, wounded and listing, before they decided to separate. A trial, she’d told her mother. It had been a trial to see how she liked living alone. She liked it pretty well, Alia had discovered, although at times the loneliness bit with small, sharp teeth. That was the past. Although currently the flat echoed with silence, normally it offered succor in the form of a true home, and the nexus of her life with the two most incredible men it had been her good fortune to love. 

Once through the attractive fire door at the head of the stairs the petite blonde paused, arrested by the lamps glowing in the lounge, and the smell of garlic and onions, of roasting chicken and fresh bread. “Hello…”

Familiar steps announced the presence of one of her wandering lovers. Alia’s heart took flight as the trim figure of Mycroft Holmes stepped out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a tea towel, a warm smile taking over his face, “Welcome home, love.”

_ “My,” _ she choked out, thrilled to tears. Letting her bag slide unheeded off of her shoulder, Alia flew across the polished hardwood floor and into his waiting arms. As they closed about her, she felt a weight lift; loneliness departing. For a long time they just hugged one another, but finally she lifted her face and he smiled down at her, the inscrutable eyes he showed the world incredibly warm as he raked her face with his gaze. “I missed you,” she breathed, just before their lips touched.

He hummed deep in his chest, arms solid around her waist, all but lifting her up onto her toes to better align their mouths. She drank in his familiar smell, the crisp warmth of his shirt under her fingertips, the steady beat of his heart against her breast. Finally they eased back slightly, both smiling, and she dropped back to her heels, smoothing fond hands up his chest. “I can't believe you’re home early!”

“The summit was interminable and a tremendous waste of time. Delays are a power play--so I made one of my own and we departed.”

“Will that cause problems, do you think?” She asked in concern, knowing how stressed he could grow when international matters crested to a near-disaster. 

“Problems for another day, perhaps,” he said, almost flippantly. But then, seeing her genuine concern, he ran a hand lightly through her hair, spreading the honeyed lengths over the shoulders of her purple summer dress. “Politics are a dance, my dear, and I know the steps well.”

“It’s been a while since  _ we’ve _ been dancing,” she said lightly, altering the subject, for there was little he could tell them about his work. Early on in their relationship they had drawn strict guidelines for what would and would not be acceptable topics for discussion. It was the same for herself and Greg, although on a different plane. They all were privy to sensitive information and high-profile secrets.

“A problem easily solved,” he murmured, moving into a slow dance. They shuffled in a small circle, pressed close, smiling. A sense of rightness filled her, like a drop of ink softly tinting a glass of water.

Much as she loved time to herself--so vital to restore her spirit and equanimity--too much was isolating. Mycroft had been gone for the last fortnight. Normally Alia had the steadfast presence of Greg at her side. They were adept at shielding one another from loneliness when My was gone. But Greg had departed five days prior for a law enforcement training conference in Vancouver. 

The well of silence into which she’d been dropped had nearly defeated her on one or two dark nights. Alia wrapped her fingers more firmly around Mycroft’s and looked with gratitude on his handsome face. Having him back home meant more than a body to warm her bed, much more than someone to make sure she ate a home-cooked meal or took proper care of herself. 

Mycroft spun her in a circle and then dropped a light kiss on her mouth, “Why don’t you go slip into the bath I’m sure you’ve been dreaming of. I’ll bring you a glass of wine, hmm?”

“Do you want any help in the kitchen?” Alia loved when they all cooked together, but she had to admit that a soak in the deep bathtub sounded utterly wonderful.

“It’s all under control,” he assured her, "I've been looking forward to coming home and cooking for you…I found a new recipe for a garlic and wine cream sauce I think you'll adore." Picking up her bag and hanging it from the coat tree next to the door, he smiled, blue-grey eyes hooded, “I want you relaxed, how about a shoulder massage?”

“I love you,” she breathed happily, already unhooking the placket at the front of her dress. 

Mycroft and his deep pockets had spared no expense in outfitting the house when he renovated ten years prior. Originally he’d had the intention of closing off the upper floor and turning it into a self-contained flat. At first intended for Sherlock’s use, it had been reimagined as a rental property when it became clear that the two couldn’t live in such close proximity. Happily, changes in his personal life had made it the perfect place for his lovers to live.

The master bath was spacious and equipped with beautiful fittings, her favourite of which was the large, deep bathtub. Ensconced up to her neck in fragrant bubbles, Alia closed her eyes and let her head rest against the bath pillow Greg had included in her Christmas stocking. A draught of air made her open her eyes and she smiled up at Mycroft as he set a wine glass within reach. “Better?”

“Infinitely.” She took a welcome sip, savouring the crisp white as it slid smoothly over her palate.

“Mm, I’m glad.” He had already rolled up his sleeves while in the kitchen, and now he lost no time in putting a towel under his knees for cushion against the tile floor and kneeling by the bathtub. Obligingly she shifted forward, drawing up her knees and resting her folded arms on them. 

As his hands, slick with bubbles, moved with perfect pressure over her shoulders, Alia melted, tension leaving her. Rolling her forehead against her forearms, she moaned softly. Mycroft leaned forward and pressed a tender kiss to the damp nape of her neck and she smiled, feeling the gesture sink into her, bringing peace with it.

“I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re home,” she murmured, turning her head to lay her temple against her arm. 

“I believe I can make an educated guess,” he replied, voice softly amused. His thumbs pressing into a sore spot on her left shoulder blade caused a skip in her breathing. Humming inquiringly, he returned to the spot, finessing the muscle. “However deeply you missed me, I can assure you it was nowhere near as gravely as I missed you and Greg.”

“It’s been hard, with you both gone,” she admitted. “I think this is the first time I’ve been alone in the last several years.”

“I’m more sorry than I can say that events converged, leaving you alone,” Mycroft said softly, “It always warms me to know you’re both here, together, waiting for my return. Thinking of you here alone for the past week has been distressing.” His thumbs eased deeper, drawing a faint whimper of pleasured pain from her. "I find I…don't do well when I'm away from you." His admission was softly pained; he’d never done well at admitting to weakness, real or perceived. "You keep me sane."

She put a wet hand up to cover his where it moved on her shoulder, stilling it, “You’re home now.”

She didn’t have to see his smile, she could hear it in his voice, “Yes, I am home.”  _ Home.  _

  
  


******

  
  


Dinner was lovely, and they lingered on the sofa after with their wine, catching one another up. Mycroft was full of amusing anecdotes and witty observances of some of the attendees; nothing indiscreet, but full of his usual sly humour. Alia shared a bit of office gossip and told him about the co-ed baby shower she’d attended for one of her old flatmates. Essentially an excuse to drink and play ridiculous games--also designed to lead to more drink. “Sounds boozy,” Mycroft said wryly.

“I was a bit tipsy on the way home,” Alia admitted, curling her toes against the couch; she had tucked them under his thigh and was leaning forward over her drawn-up knees. Resting her chin on her folded arms she smiled at him, “Don’t worry, I Ubered home.”

Mycroft made a non-committal noise which could have meant anything, but which she specifically knew meant,  _ I do wish you’d cease being so stubborn and prideful and let me arrange a secure car service for you, my dear.  _

Wonderful though Mycroft was, he had a tendency to try and manage the lives of those he loved, whether or not they wanted said managing. It had taken some rather pointed comments and one or two uncomfortable discussions before she convinced him that she was more than capable of navigating the city safely on her own and had done so for years. They’d finally reached a truce on the subject.

“You look tired,” she said now, studying his face, eyes soft. “Ready for bed?”

Nodding, he stood, helping her up, “I didn’t manage much sleep the last few nights, and you know how tiring I find air travel.”

“Go, get ready, I’ll tidy up,” she shooed him off with a fond swat to his arse, and he caught her hand, pressing a slow kiss to the palm.

“I’m not terribly tired, but I  _ am _ ready for bed.”

Shivering in anticipation, Alia gathered their things and started the dishwasher. After adding the wine bottle to the recycling, she walked around turning out lights, a soft smile playing at her lips. As she completed her nightly ablutions, Mycroft called from the bedroom for her to bring her hairbrush, and she picked it up, smiling with a happy rush; she'd missed this.

Alia settled on the bed between Mycroft’s legs. With care he drew the Mason Pearson brush down the length of her hair. Closing her eyes, she let herself sink into quietude. How she’d missed this! Not solely the things which Mycroft did, but the tenderness with which he cared for her, and how genuinely happy it made him to do so. 

As he lulled her into drowsiness, he spoke softly, “Did you enjoy the links to the ASMR videos I sent you?”

She smiled dreamily, “I did...I particularly liked the ones with hair brushing and scalp massage.”

His smile was once again evident in his tone, “I thought you might…” One of the ways in which he displayed his care was to find ways to express his emotions without words. In the early days he’d struggled mightily with actually verbalising feelings--something which seemed to have become a habit leftover from his strange, lonely childhood. 

When her hair was crackling and her scalp tingling, he set aside the brush with a soft click, and scooped her hair out of the way to trail kisses softly over her neck and shoulders. She raised a hand back over her shoulder and sank her fingers in his hair, scratching her nails over his scalp, relishing the soft huff of his breath on her skin. “I’ve been craving your touch, love.” Breathing deep, reminding herself he was home, Li continued, "Craving your presence."

“I shall have to fulfill your craving, then,” Mycroft murmured, warm hands sliding around her ribcage to smooth up her abdomen and weigh her breasts tenderly in his palms as he left a trail of kisses down the knobs of her spine. “Consequently indulging one of my own…”

“Which would be?” She asked breathlessly, turning at the urging of his hands, smiling up at him, looping her arms around his neck and pulling him close. 

“Getting as close to you as possible.”

“I do believe that can be arranged…”

  
  


******

  
  


The next day was a lazy one; sleeping in, making breakfast together and then strolling to the shops to lay in fresh supplies. Alia did yoga in the gym while Mycroft ran several swift miles on the treadmill before he used his free weights. As always, the sight of him, sweaty, flushed and in sleek athletic gear left her feeling rather flushed and damp herself. 

Her suggestive eyebrows made him laugh, but to no avail. Unfortunately, he had a conference call which was unavoidable, so he showered and changed into one of his power suits and closed himself in the study. 

Alia climbed the inner staircase to her floor and took a leisurely shower, then grabbed a pear and a sparkling water and stretched out on the bed. Before cracking open her well-thumbed copy of  _ Stranger in a Strange Land, _ she picked up her phone and sent a loving text off to Greg. 

_ Hey handsome! I hope your conference is going alright. We had a great day but it would be worlds better with you here. <3 Li  _

His reply came several chapters later. 

_ God sunshine I miss you like crazy! The conference has been mostly great. Lots of loud mouthed cops & hotel food. You know. What are you up to this evening? _

_ My's got a phone thing but then we're going to have leftovers and watch telly. _

_ Better not watch Stranger Things without me!!!!!  _

_ As if we would. That's an arrestable offence isn't it? ;)  _

_ You just want me to use my cuffs… _

_ Guilty as charged, officer XD _

  
  


******

  
  


Greg came back to them two days later, tired, sunburned and ebullient at being with his loves again. He’d brought them gifts, silly things, and some excellent maple syrup and several types of maple candies. He fussed happily at Mycroft, telling him he shouldn't have arranged for him to receive an upgrade on his flight but he loved him for being sneaky. 

"And you," he said, cupping Alia's jaw in his hand, "Any more headaches?" His frown was fiercely loving, "I hope you went to bed early and drank the herbal tea I left you, rather than stay late at work, then come home and read until three a.m."

"I've been taking care of myself, as you asked, fusspot," she replied tenderly, twining her fingers with his and smiling into his loving brown eyes. "I missed you terribly though; we both did."

Wrapping them both up in his arms, he groaned happily, “Christ, I missed you two!”  _ Mwah! Mwah! _ "My gorgeous fella and my beautiful girl."

Smacking kisses on their cheeks in turn, he bore them down onto the rug in an ungainly sprawl, laughing out loud. “My hair,” Li giggled, trying to tug it out from under Greg’s hand.

“My dignity,” Mycroft snorted, shoving at Greg, “Get off me, you lummox.”

“Aw, My,” Greg cooed, grinning and bright-eyed, “Didn’t ya miss me at all?” He snuffled his nose under Mycroft’s ear, fingers flexing threateningly over the subtle glen plaid of Mycroft’s waistcoat. “You’d think you didn’t love me.”

“Don’t you dare tickle me, you beast,” Mycroft warned, laughter warming his eyes. He looked at Alia beseechingly, “Sweetheart, save me.”

“Our sunshine is barely five foot three,” Greg laughed, lying back and hooking an arm around each of their shoulders, drawing them close. “You think she’s going to save you? What’s she going to do, terrorize my ankles?” He cackled merrily.

“No Mississippi Mud brownies for you if you make with the cracks about my height,” she threatened, poking him in the belly. Letting her hand linger, she wormed it up under the hem of his button-down, which had come loose from his waistband in the struggle. Petting him lightly, she closed her eyes, head resting on his chest, listening to the reassuring thump of his heart. Mycroft put his hand over hers, face tucked in the cove of Greg’s neck.

“A mighty threat indeed,” he mused. “I’d choose care in your next words.”

“God, I missed you two,” Greg sighed happily, giving them both a squeeze. He chuckled, chest lifting beneath her head, “Can’t believe I missed the weekend with you, though.”

“There’ll be others.”

“We talked about you  _ lots.” _

“FaceTime isn’t the same, but it was good to see you lazing in bed with the papers...I just wanted to dive right in between you.”

“Now here you are,” Mycroft murmured, hand sliding down the fly of Greg’s jeans. He sent Li a sly smile, and she grinned back, her own hand gliding up Greg’s chest to brush his nipples. 

“Welcome home, darling.”

  
  
  


******

  
  
  
  


They were watching Skyfall.  _ Again, _ as Mycroft had sighed in a very martyred fashion. He didn’t fool his sweethearts, however, who were used to his theatrics. Mycroft loved the Bond films as much as they did, although he had a fondness for the older Connery era; Li and Greg were both quite taken with the Craig films and the three of them had watched them more than once. 

They were all sprawled on the roomy sofa in the upper flat. Mycroft had a very spacious two floors, perfectly appointed and lacking no luxury, but he seemed to prefer that they spend most of their free time on the top floor. Li suspected he found it homier, something he wouldn’t admit to wanting, but which he very much needed. Mycroft had his head in her lap, where she had been idly threading her fingers through his hair, and his socked feet across Greg’s legs. Greg had one hand softly squeezing Mycroft’s toes, the other arm was stretched across the back of the sofa so he could play with the ends of her hair. Greg was a tactile, affectionate lover, and it was rare that he wasn’t touching them in some way. 

“Hnnng,” Greg grunted softly when Gareth Mallory appeared, looking enigmatic and deliciously rugged. 

“What  _ is _ your fascination with that man?” Mycroft asked, sounding honestly puzzled.

“He’s gorgeous, for starters,” Li answered, stroking his furrowed forehead. He tipped his head back farther and looked up at her, bemused. “Sardonic, powerful, mature…”

“Aged like a perfect whisky,” Greg supplied. “Fucking  _ catnip.” _

“He’s...old,” Mycroft said, sounding subdued. He studied his hands, which were pulling at one of the buttons on his waistcoat. Over his head Greg and Alia’s eyes met. “Desk-bound,  _ hide-bound, _ conventional.”

_ Oh love, _ Li thought, heart squeezing painfully in her chest. No matter how deep their love for him ran, his own feeling of self-worth was a wounded creature.  _ I’d like to murder your horrid Mummy, she thought, not for the first time. _

“Bond, I can understand,” Mycroft said, a bit too briskly, obviously worried he’d revealed his hand, “He’s vigorous, fit.” He licked his lips, perhaps not aware he’d done so, “Quite…virile.”

“I wouldn’t kick him outta bed,” Greg mused, “but for a relationship, it’d be Mallory all the way. He’s a man who knows what he wants, who respects order and tradition, but knows how to wield his power for the greater good.”

“Plus he’s just  _ hot,”  _ Li said with feeling. Mycroft tipped his head back again to look at her; when he did, she leaned over and kissed him, soft, wet and open-mouthed. A soft rumble of need vibrated his throat beneath her fingertips, and she smiled against his lips. 

The past week had allowed them to fall back into their routine, something which Mycroft in particular needed. Greg had split his time between the top floor and Mycroft’s part of the house--although as Mycroft always maintained, the house belonged to all of them-- this last week, and in the evenings they had congregated on the top floor. It was Friday once more and amazingly they’d all managed to arrive home fairly early. Following a boisterous dinner made in the kitchen, they’d gone out onto the small balcony to eat, enjoying the last of the summer warmth, and admiring the sun setting through the clouds and city haze. 

Film now forgotten, they tumbled together on the wide, soft sofa, limbs tangled as they eased themselves together. Greg laid along Mycroft’s side, a bit squashed between his lean form and the back of the sofa, but cozy in his spot, while Alia stretched out mostly on top of Mycroft. “Too heavy for you?” She asked, "Too much?"

He pulled her close, pressing kisses to her willing lips. “Never,” Mycroft avowed tenderly, brushing his lips over her eyelids, lips curving as they fluttered helplessly against his mouth. “None of this is too much.”

  
  


******

  
  


Greg had taken a personal day the following Thursday, and he was at home when Li arrived home from work, both her personal and her work laptops weighing down her messenger bag. She was due off for several days, but she had some vital things which needed to be taken care of, so she’d be doing a few tasks over the long weekend. It was a surprise to find him home, and she smiled widely, “What are you doing off so early?”

“Thought I’d get a jump start on the weekend, since you’ll be here, and My’ll be off to Balmoral," Mycroft wouldn't be home until late Saturday night, unfortunately, for all that he was scarcely back home. Handing her a glass of water, Greg took the bag from her, grimacing at the weight. “I hope you’re not planning on working all weekend.”   
  


“Well,” she began apologetically, “There  _ is  _ something--”

“Darlin’,” he said sternly, steering her away from her automatic reach for the bag and to the sofa, “You promised to leave work at work this weekend. You’ve been pushing yourself too much.”

“It’s just one or two minor fixes.”

“If they’re minor then you don’t need to manage them, do you? I suspect any number of your assistants are dying to dazzle you with their skill.”

“I’m the section head,” She sighed, kicking her shoes under the coffee table and drawing her feet up onto the sofa.

“Delegate.”

“But--”

Putting his hands on her shoulders, he leaned over the back of the sofa, and whispered in her ear, “Self-care, sweetheart.”

Slumping a bit, she had to admit he was right. It was a fault of hers; she always took on too much, never knew when to quit, or say no. The pride she took in her work was well-deserved, but Alia also knew that she let it dictate too much of her life. 

It had been an interesting road, starting out as a young, but not so naive, gray-hat hacker, who specialized in whistle blowing and youthful shenanigans. She'd been recruited by MI-6 before she finished university and donned a very white hat--as long as one considered the government a just cause. It was where she’d met Mycroft for the first time. A brilliant analyst in her own right, Alia had been slightly dazzled upon meeting Mycroft. Several years her senior, he’d walked a fine line between mentorship and a flirtatious friendliness. 

They’d each been entangled in affairs of their own, however, and Li hadn’t wanted to sully her rapid ascent through the ranks of Her Majesty’s Secret service by any accusations of 

favouritism. 

From there, she’d had a rather spectacular career as a computer analyst, but burnout had caught up with her during her health crisis. Seeking a fresh start, she’d gotten into the private sector, found it too soulless, and ended up aligning herself with a brilliant start-up which devoted a good portion of its time towards pro bono work for charities. 

As one of the senior specialists, Li had been brought in as an outside contractor to painstakingly comb through the files relating to the Richard Brooks/James Moriarty headache. After it was proved that Moriarty was in fact a devious criminal genius, a lot of scrutiny had been brought to bear on the entire case. It was felt that no one inside the Met was exempt from a careful examination.

Which was how she had met Greg. In a way it was as if she owed happiness to one of the worst criminals to haunt Great Britain.

“Water,” Greg gently commanded, and she drank obediently, grateful. It had been bloody hot, and the Tube ride close and unpleasant. It had been a relief to walk the fifteen minutes home from the station. “Then a shower--”

“Together?” She interrupted hopefully, widening her eyes pleadingly. 

He grinned at her, a salacious edge curving his lips, which he pressed promisingly to her own.

“’course--and then we’re going to eat a stupidly large salad for dinner and FaceTime My.”

_ Bliss. _

Following their shower--complete with her favourite Amber Romance body gel and a sinfully soft sponge wielded by a devilishly naughty man--they made a half-arsed effort to blot themselves off. From the loo they went naked into the kitchen and assembled a salad brimming with greens and veggies, some from their own garden, and leftover roast chicken. Greg buttered some of the quick bread she’d baked the day before while Alia whisked a quick lemon vinaigrette together. She licked a bit from her thumb and caught Greg’s swift inhale. Smiling saucily, she sauntered past him, salad bowl in hand.

Passing the media center, Greg turned the CD player on and adjusted the volume; they’d danced around the lounge the night before to some New Wave, burning off the excess energy Greg had from an aborted case which had been kicked up the chain of command. Alia loved to dance, and found any opportunity she could; she far preferred it to working out in a gym. One of her most-enjoyed methods was pole-dancing, an activity she’d taken up in the last year. There was now a newly installed pole in Mycroft’s home gym, which had given him a good deal of private amusement over the carefully concealed amazement of the builders who installed it.

They chatted easily, Greg’s feet propped on the coffee table, Alia’s tucked under her, as they ate. “I think we should go for a bike ride Sunday when My's home,” Greg mused, stabbing at an heirloom cherry tomato. “Get him out of his head after a few days of playing the Perfect Diplomat.”

“Sounds good,” she agreed, setting aside her bowl. Stretching, she swiveled so she could rub his thigh with her toes, “If you don’t have anything pressing tomorrow, how about a walk around Camden Town market and a few pints at that place we found?”

“Ooh, Lock Tavern?” Greg said eagerly, “Grand...maybe stop by Camden Lock Vinyl, or Wild Horses, see if they have anything new.”

“Mm,” she agreed lazily, tracing the line of his thigh with her black-painted toes. She smiled at him, “Not sure you need any more vinyl, sweetie.”

“Some things aren’t about need,” he said solemnly, mopping vinaigrette up with the last of his bread and popping it in his mouth. He grinned, "Although I'd say we both need a good ride on the motorcycle this weekend. Since My's not here to shriek, we can really take her out for a sprint."

Li grinned in anticipation, Greg had an old, lovingly restored and maintained Triumph which she'd been happily driving when he wasn't at the helm. She'd had a motorcycle in her younger years, one she'd rebuilt in her dad's racing garage after school, as well as a Vespa when she'd lived abroad. But until Greg, it had been ages since she'd really gotten to ride. 

Later, they FaceTimed Mycroft, who had already showered, judging by his damp hair (Li’s heart squeezed happily at the loose curl on his forehead), and was already clad in his pyjamas, which in this case was one of Greg’s old Arsenal t-shirts, and a pair of loose cotton lounge bottoms. He’d taken out his contacts and wore his horn-rimmed glasses, something that always made her weak--Greg too, judging by the rough sound he made.

“Unfair!” She protested, “How dare you support the  _ Gunners!” _

“I’m impartial in matters of football, you know that,” Mycroft parried, “It’s simply that I wished to have something to make me feel close to you whilst away.” He cracked a smile, a sparkle in his eyes, “Lovely though your figure is, my dear, I don’t think any of your clothing would fit me.”

“I feel unfairly represented,” she teased.

“Does it assuage your wounded feelings to know that my pants are a lovely Tottenham blue?”

“Show us, show us!” They shouted in unison, bouncing on the bed. 

Mycroft laughed, delighted, “You’re both ridiculous.”

“Show us your pants!”

“C’mon, My, give us a tease…”

He gave a pretend huff of annoyance, but obligingly stood, shifting his laptop so it was angled at him as he began to remove his bottoms. “Slower, darlin’,” Greg soothed, “We’re in no hurry.”

“No indeed,” Li purred, wriggling into the mattress. She began humming a slow bump-and-grind tune, and Greg laughed.

“Ridiculous,” came Mycroft’s muffled voice, but he obligingly slipped out of the bottoms in as slow and sensuous a manner as he could. His boxer briefs were indeed a gorgeous blue. Li sighed admiringly and Greg let out a loud whistle. Mycroft flopped onto the bed, face pink. “I don’t know why I put up with you two.”

“You know you love us,” she giggled.

“Alas, I do,” he admitted, face creasing into an easy, fond smile. His blue-grey eyes regarded them brightly, as he propped his head on one hand, “Now, tell me what I missed on  _ Love Island.” _

  
  
  



End file.
